ere those shells were dropping? What
was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big
guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4.9-inch, 6-inch,
9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere;
all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a stupendous effort
to pound some part of the German line into confusion.

Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition
workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones
Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you
boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look
upon this sight!

This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is
protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is
Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the
sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil,
lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons.
They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.

The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent
mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and
let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the
horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their
homes, if those guns fail.

What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an
hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the
valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches
gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do
these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in
England?

No! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our
munition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are
traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own
sons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and
their lives.

Throw down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and
Trones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a
thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the
protection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?

If those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave
their tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England,
whom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as
necessary fo